Within the dim light of Clyde’s wagon, Sombra found himself being crushed between three equal forces. On one side of him lay the pile of junk—’knicknacks’, Clyde had called them—while on the other side lay the rotted plank of wood, and on top of him lay his own crushing boredom. He needed to rest. It was impossible to sleep. The wagon bumped incessantly, Clyde whistled the most asinine tunes while he walked, and there was only a certain amount of shame that a pony of Sombra’s renown could take before coming down with a bad case of insomnia.
Sombra could feel that weight grow with every step under Clyde’s care. When he retrieved his horn, and his powers with it, the first pony he destroyed would be this insufferable workhorse. He passed the time deciding just he would do it. So many ways to torture a pony…
They were a few hours in the forests north of Appleloosa when the wagon was caught in the mud. It was the third time since they’d left, and this time they lost a wheel. Sombra had been dreaming of a parade through the snowy streets of his the Empire, waving to the adoring crystal ponies and their adorable crystal children, staring at their sunken skeletal eyes, the ribcages showing between their rags, wondering, What could he do? what could he do? when suddenly he was pressed up against the side of the wagon, the pile of ‘knicknacks’ falling on top of him like a waterfall of garbage.
“Sakes alive,” Clyde could be heard muttering.
Sombra could only sigh. What could he do, indeed.
The place was lousy with creatures unseen. Chirruping chipmunks and twittering winter birds were all over the trees having some conversation they must have found fascinating. Sombra sat with his back against a tree as Clyde fixed the wheel back to its axle. He breathed in the mulchy air of the forest, tasted the sap on his tongue.
“I thought you said this thing never let you down,” he said, staring up through the canopy. Any moment now, he would see a purple alicorn flying overhead. Any moment her magic would rain destruction upon them…
“Oh, this ain’t the wagon’s fault. It’s mine.”
Sombra let his gaze fall forward. He glared at the head, and its tiny hat, bobbing up and down on the other side of the wagon.
“You mean you’re aiming for the obstacles in our path?”
“No, sir. They’re aiming for me.”
Sombra groaned and let his head hit the tree with a quiet thump. Dappled light fell on him through the leaves, and he closed his eyes. He wondered if he still had enough power to turn into a shadow. But he couldn't risk it. Sure, in that form he could reach the Empire in a few hours at most, but he could also use it to get as far away from this fool as possible.
There was nothing worse than a pony who blamed his own shortcomings on bad luck.
***
It was at the peak of his boredom that Sombra remembered Clyde had referred to the pile of junk as “light entertainment.” Sombra doubted this very much, but proving the idiot wrong might make for its own entertainment. So he reached inside his depleted magic stores and found enough to conjure a small crystal to give him light. He took stock of the pile.
He found cans of food, powdered milk and a half-eaten bag of corn chips. He found a purse that contained a sizeable amount of bits. He found a few foal’s toys—a ball-and-cup and its associates—and in the back he found an item he’d never seen before. It was a flat metal square with a sheet of glass inside, and behind the glass was a drawing of some kind. All browns and yellows, it depicted two ponies: An adult mare and a foal not more than ten… Clyde, Sombra realized. Same white stripe on his face. Same hat. His hair was wet, and he was wrapped in a blue blanket with ducks on it, while the mare with the black hair tousled his mane and pretended she wasn’t doing so. It was eerie. They both smiled at Sombra as if they could see him.
The tarp at the front of the wagon had been left loose in case Sombra wanted to poke his head out and “shoot the breeze.” He never had. Not until now.
“Hey,” Sombra said. He poked his head through the tarp and glared at the marching Clyde. The workhorse’s face was slack and impenetrable, as usual. “You.”
“You might wanna warn me ’fore you go poppin’ out like that,” warned Clyde. “Could be somepony walkin’ by.”
“Silence.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is this?” Sombra held out the item.
Clyde’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened. He stopped marching. “Did you… find that in there?”
“Yes. Why? Does it hold some sort of magic spell over you?”
Clyde shook his head, said, “No.”
“Then why did you stop?”
Clyde smiled innocently, faced forward and resumed his march. “I just thought I’d lost it,” he said.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“That’s me and Mama Clyde. Troubleheart was her name. Sweet Celestia… That must have been over twenty years ago.”
Sombra frowned. “But are you the artist?”
“Beg pardon?”
“This drawing is incredibly lifelike. Who made it?”
A chuckle escaped Clyde’s lips, low and deep. Sombra could tell it came from his lungs and not his mouth, and he wondered if Clyde had ever tried to evil-laugh before. He'd be good at it.
“Mr. Sombra,” Clyde said, “that there’s a photograph.”
“I don’t care what it’s called. Who made it?”
“A camera did. Mighty accurate, ain’t she?”
“So it’s a unicorn’s spell.”
“No, sir. I’m not an expert in the field, but, as I understand it, it involves a lightbulb and some fancy drawing mechanisms. Takes a snapshot of whatever’s before your eyes and prints it down on a page, lickety-split.”
Sombra studied the photograph. It betrayed no error. He felt he was really there with the boy and his mother. He could almost hear their laughter.
“Remind me, Clyde, to summon this “Camera” to my domain and have her create a painting of me. My painters were good, but they were never so accurate.”
Clyde chuckled again. “Oh, I think I know where we can find her.”
“Good. See it done.”
With great effort, Sombra rolled himself onto his back and rested his head against the lip of the wagon. The sky was still blue, but the trails of clouds were colored purple, promising evening.
Evening came along, then night followed soon after, and the sky went all bright with stars. Clyde had marched from morning to dusk, and his joints were barkin’ like a pack of dogs outside a Griffonstone slaughterhouse. But the night meant a campfire, some dinner, and a warm mug of tea, and those three things could make a day of troubles worth every effort. That’s what Mama Clyde always said.
That photo Sombra’d found was a stroke of luck—something Clyde rarely experienced. It had been taken at Gold Embers Campground. He and Mama Clyde used to go there every year around this time ’o’ year, seeing as it was closed down for the season and they could sneak in without paying. It was too cold for most folk, but nothing was too cold for a Clyde.
Clyde snatched some matches from a pouch hanging off the side of the wagon and got to work. Only burned himself once before he got a good blaze going, and that had to be a new record.
Then he approached the wagon. It was deadly silent in there, within and without. He hadn’t heard from Sombra for quite some time now. He hoped the poor guy was getting some well deserved rest. But he doubted it. It was a bumpy ride, and no mistake. Especially with ol’ Troubleshoes at the hitch.
Clyde quietly reached inside the wagon to gather what he needed, moving quietly, but Sombra’s dark red eyes flashed open instantly, as bright as ever, staring hard. Clyde darn near chucked the box of teabags at him thinking he was a ghost.
“Uh.” Clyde swallowed. “Care to join me?”
“Not interested.” Sombra’s voice sounded cold, hungry, and thirsty.
Clyde swallowed again. “I started a fire.”
“Not cold.”
“Was about to make a warm meal.”
“Not hungry.”
“Boil some tea.”
The eyes squinted back. Clyde saw the pupils from circular to slitted. They looked downright reptilian.
“Spiked tea?” Sombra whispered.
Clyde managed a smile. “Yes, sir. Spiked to hell.”
Clyde stepped back and unfolded the tarp over the hitch. He held out a hoof in case Sombra needed it, and, whether or not he did, the frail king hopped out onto the dirt, ignoring him completely. He stretched out his neck, then slouched with a heavy sigh. He pawed at the ground a couple times, armor jangling.
“Reckon you should take your shin-pads off,” Clyde suggested. “Might make you feel lighter.”
Sombra glared at him. “They are greaves.”
“Reckon you should take ’em off just the same.”
Sombra continued to glare. Without breaking eye contact, he slid off his armor, and his sunken crown, and tossed them into the wagon. He strode over to the fire and sat down.
Neither of them said a word as Clyde prepared two bowls of cabbage stew, two slices of bread and two mugs of apple cinnamon tea spiked with a healthy dose of Appleloosan bourbon. Clyde didn’t mind the quiet, at first. He could hardly suppress his glee. He’d had hundreds of campfires in his life. But not for a good twenty years had he had attended a campfire with company.
Sombra accepted his meal, tearing at the bread like an animal at fresh kill. Clyde couldn’t help but stare at the black stallion, check his posture and his mood. Clyde’s own mood was beginning to sour like old milk as he noticed Sombra’s angry stare go from bad to worse over a fifteen-minute spell of silence—a silence broken only by the clatter of cutlery, an occasional sip, the crackling of fire, and Sombra’s long, beleaguered sighs.
“I am growing weaker,” Sombra eventually said.
Clyde nodded. “That so?”
“Yes.”
Clyde nodded again, stared at his flickering reflection in his tea. He would move double-time tomorrow. Least he could do.
“Reckon we can reach Ponyville by noon tomorrow,” he said. “I was gonna pick us up some firewood. Be in and out quick as a housecat.”
“I’m glad one of us has a plan.”
“While we’re there, I recommend staying quiet as a mouse in the wagon. Don’t need no attention drawn to us.”
“I will not cower and hide,” Sombra said.
“I reckon you can hide without cowerin’.”
Sombra turned away and growled quietly. The conversation scurried away, like a bird flying from its cage while you weren’t paying it no mind. The night was quiet but full of sips, and the fire slowly died. Clyde stole glances at his traveling companion. He noticed Sombra really was withering, then—a bit skinnier in the shoulders and the chin—but his blood red eyes hadn’t lost their shine. Seemed nothing could dampen them. Clyde wondered if the fire was really dying of natural causes, or shriveling away under King Sombra’s stare.
“You’d make a good advisor, Clyde,” Sombra said suddenly.
“…An advisor?” Clyde asked. “Me?”
“Yes. Perhaps I won’t destroy you after all.”
“Mighty nice of you to say.”
“I’ll simply possess you instead.”
Clyde coughed and sputtered. Held his hoof to his mouth. Sombra threw back the last of his drink and smacked his lips.
“Another,” he said.
Clyde whipped him up a second mug of tea. As he added the bourbon, Sombra reached over and tipped the back of the bottle up until it was empty, spilling some of the contents in the dirt. Then he accepted the mug without any thanks. Clyde didn’t mind. He was still riding the high from the thanks he’d gotten that morning.
“Can’t say I’ve ever been possessed before,” Clyde muttered.
“It’s nice,” Sombra said, his voice lowered. “Less to worry about when you’re possessed.”
“Have you ever been possessed?”
“No.”
Clyde shifted on his log. He couldn’t decide if he’d been having too much caffeine or too much alcohol, because his heart was thumping in his chest and his face was burning something severe.
Sombra had the nightmare about the voices again. They surrounded him as he laid alone in darkness, unable to move or yell for help. The voices jeered at his failures, celebrated his downfall, promised to never remember him for as long as they lived.
Sombra did not fear this particular nightmare—or any nightmare, really. He was an avid lucid-dreamer. But on this occasion he awoke to a reality that gripped him with fear: He was still in Clyde’s wagon; he was still frail, and cold despite the warmth of his cape; the tarp had sunk down to meet him as if the sky itself were staring at him nose-to-nose; and the voices had followed him into the waking world.
They were fewer now, and further away, but still laughing, though perhaps not at him. Sombra pulled his cape closer in and tried to slow his heart down from racing.
The wagon shook, and the back partition fell open. Sombra cringed away, but saw Clyde’s dopey face and relaxed. The workhorse held a hoof to his mouth. Shh. He winked. Behind him, Sombra saw rows of snow hovering in the sky, shadowed by the bare branches of a tree. Underneath the tree was an old couple on a bench, wrapped in scarves and hats.
They were in Ponyville.
Clyde pushed two paper bags into the junk pile. Sombra heard bottles clanging and took a peek.
Appleloosan bourbon. Lots of Appleloosan bourbon.
“Have you been shopping?” said Sombra in a seething whisper.
Clyde nodded, gestured another shh, then closed the back of the wagon again. Sombra groaned and pressed his face into the blanket. He listened to Clyde get in the hitch, willed him to pick up the pace. The sooner they were out of here the sooner—
“Troubleshoes?”
Sombra’s heart set off at a gallop. He gasped and covered his mouth.
“W-well, I’ll be," Clyde said. "Fancy seein’ you here, Your Majesty.”
Oh, yes! thought Sombra. Fancy meeting Twilight Sparkle in Ponyville! What were the chances?!
“Off on an adventure?” Twilight asked.
“No, ma’am. Just visitin’ Ponyville for some supplies.”
“I can see that,” said Twilight. “You have quite the, uh… shopping cart.”
Sombra could almost feel Twilight’s eyes scanning the thin layer of tarp. Alicorns didn’t possess the ability to peer through objects, did they?
“Say, Troubleshoes, you know AJ, right?”
“Surely.”
“Why don’t we go see her about a new wagon? I’m sure she has plenty lying around. I’d help you move your stuff over, too.”
There was a long, long pause. The voices of the townsfolk had gone quiet. Probably voices went quiet wherever Twilight Sparkle went. Sombra used to command such attention, once upon a time. And now he was hiding inside a wooden dumpster with wheels.
“It’s just,” Twilight continued, “you’re bound to get yourself hurt hauling this thing around. What with your luck and all.”
“My luck?”
“Oh, sure. AJ told me about it. I’m sorry to hear.”
“Mighty kind, Your Majesty. But some things are immune to my misfortune, this wagon included. So, thanks for the offer, but I’m quite attached, as you can see.”
Sombra felt a jolt, like the wagon had been struck by a rock. Had Clyde just made a joke about being “attached” to the wagon? Sombra rolled his eyes.
“Riiiiight,” blathered Twilight. “Well, I’ll let you get on with your journey. Headed back home today?”
Say no, thought Sombra. Say no say no say—
“Yes, ma’am. Back south tomorrow.”
Sombra grit his teeth. He pushed his lower jaw against his fangs until they hurt. Clyde made a good advisor, true, but he was woeful in the field.
“Well, maybe I’ll see you around,” said Twilight.
There was another pause. Then, without saying goodbye, the wagon jolted into motion. Sombra braced himself against the walls around him. They were moving too fast.
“Slow down,” he hissed.
They slowed down to a crawl.
“Not that slow. Move at your normal speed.”
The wagon sped up again, only a hair too fast this time. Sombra didn’t risk saying anything more. All he did was wait, and tremble, and brace for his incoming obliteration via alicorn magic.
“Check if she’s following,” he whispered after a few minutes. “But don’t look behind you.”
“…How am I s’posed to check behind me without checkin’ behind me?” Clyde muttered.
“Just do it!”
The wagon stopped. Sombra held his breath.
“She’s not following. Nopony’s around. Oh, sakes alive! That was a close one, and no mistake.”
Sombra wrenched his hoof between tarp and wagon and threw the blasted fabric away from him, standing tall. He spun around to see Clyde staring up at him like a dog surrounded by a destroyed set of curtains.
“You idiot!” barked Sombra.
Clyde’s ears went flat.
“Have you never told a lie in your life? Don’t you know how this works? If you’re heading north you don’t say you’re heading south. You reveal yourself the moment you walk away from the conversation!”
Sombra made an exasperated shout and collapsed back into the wagon. He did a quick scan of the sky, the snowy trail, the trees up ahead, and Ponyville just down the hill. No sign of any spies. Yet.
“What do you think Twilight Sparkle will say when she catches wind that you’re heading north?” he continued.
Clyde huffed. “She’ll say, ‘I reckon he done changed his mind.’ ”
“She will say nothing of the sort,” Sombra snapped. “Trust me, Clyde, the only reason she hasn’t found me and thrown you in prison is because you have the affect of a moron. And at some point, somepony is going to realize it’s all an act.”
Clyde blinked. An amused smile appeared on his face. “Mr. Sombra, did you just call me smart?”
“No. Shut up.”
The smile grew.
“Oh, just… get back in your saddle and march, will you?”
The smile grew larger still. Clyde raised an eyebrow and began puling at the tarp to tie it back down.
Sombra laid himself back down and groaned. He was terribly tired, and, even worse, his outburst had done nothing to dampen Clyde’s joyful mood. Quite the opposite. It was almost as if everything Sombra tried to do to make Clyde miserable only made him happier.
He would have to double his efforts.